


How Could You Have Known?

by Outofangband



Series: Angband [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angband, I wish I could post my headcanons here, OK yeah I'm writing about this again
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 09:05:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17639834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Outofangband/pseuds/Outofangband
Summary: (Maedhros is brought before Morgoth for the first time in Angband. Unfinished. Will hopefully post next part soon)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (also posted on @outofangband on Tumblr where I post a lot of Silmarillion headcanons often about this very subject)

    The fortress was far bigger than Maedhros had first realized. He lost count of the number of long corridors he had been half dragged down. They did not all look the same, either. Many were dreary, cold halls of stone that hurt his bare feet as he stumbled along. The subterranean levels, however, (or at least he had assumed they were subterranean), seemed to have been carved from the mountain itself. Tunnels lined with dim torches with some of the strangest plants Maedhros had ever seen. Vines covered in odd fungi lined the walls and ceilings and, in several places, the path was interrupted by small springs of warm water that made his cut up ankles and feet feel strangely numb. The guards who had been tasked with dragging him roughly from his cell to a so far unknown location did not seem to think of him as alive. They talked among themselves, pulling every so often on the chain that connected to a painfully tight band around Maedhros’s wrists. The elf wasn’t particularly bothered by this, however. He had spent much of the morning (or maybe afternoon, there was no way to tell time in the underground cells and enough time had passed since he had last been outside that he couldn’t reliably guess the hours), ignoring the countless taunts of various balrogs and orcs who passed him. Not that he was really preventing himself from doing anything. The burning iron door made it nearly impossible for him to so much as stick his arm through the bars. Being able to remain calm throughout these interactions was more of a personal victory. He could see how much it angered them when he merely raised an eyebrow or shrugged at the mockeries. They wanted to attack him, to beat him, and hurt him but someone had evidently ordered them not to. Every time one came close enough, they would seem to swallow their rage and promise him with a savage smile that their master would hear of his insolence and then he would pay. Maedhros was less afraid of this than he maybe should have been. Surely their master did not expect his newly captured enemy to treat his jailers with respect and courtesy.

    Maedhros was pulled through a set of huge doors. From the best he could tell, he was now in the main part of the fortress. The torches here were more evenly spaced and something like decoration in the form of suits of armor and other things Maedhros did not want to think about lined many of the walls.

    Perhaps it was merely his fears, reluctant as he was to admit them, but the next long corridor seemed to be colder. He did not need the next words from the guards to know what lay behind the double doors at the end.

    “You’re to see our Lord now, elf,” one of them barked in a fractured combination of more than one language. They straightened up, brushing some of the filth off of their armor. It was slightly strange, almost amusing to Maedhros that apparently, the Dark Lord had standards for how his bloodstained prison guards looked when they approached. This short moment of distraction however did not ease Maedhros’s pounding heart or rising panic. He had not set eyes on the Dark Foe for more than a moment or so since before all of this, in Valinor and the idea of meeting him again set off a horrible combination of helpless emotions; embarrassment and humiliation at being captured, and the taunting he knew he would have to endure, fear at what exactly would happen to him, the unsettling realization that he was currently representing what was left of his people in Arda. The desire to act defiant and unconcerned contrasted dangerously with some mad desire to fairly present his family against their most powerful enemy and the knowledge that both of these strategies were unlikely to end well for him.

    As he was dragged the final few paces before the door, it occurred to Maedhros that he was not entirely sure what he was afraid of. Death? It seemed unlikely that he would get off so easily. He supposed it was the unknown that frightened him. The whispered rumors of the unspeakable acts that befell elves that found themselves in the confines of Angband, even the ones who were of no personal interest to the Dark Foe. And unfortunately, it seemed that he did not fall into that category. One of the balrogs who had been involved in the slaughter of his guard, (he bit his lip so hard it bled to try and clear his mind of those thoughts) had assured him that his capture had been ordered by his master personally and that there was something special planned for him. Though once he had been thrown in his cell, the threat seemed distant and overly dramatic, at the moment he had shuddered so violently he nearly jerked out of the demon’s grip.

    The doors opened half a second before Maedhros would have thought and his breath catches in his throat. Apparently, there is a guard standing inside room by the door as well.

    Morgoth’s throne room is cold and mostly empty like many of the corridors but wider, and, instead of another door at the end, a black, shiny, ornate throne which the Vala sits atop, one hand placed on the edge. Even from the considerable distance, Maedhros can see his claw like fingers tapping with slight boredom. He had been waiting for him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (also posted on @outofangband on Tumblr where I post a lot of Silmarillion headcanons often about this very subject)

    There was no wind, no movement of the air and yet Maedhros still shivered from cold. A large part of him wanted to plant his feet and refuse to move forward. He could feel Morgoth’s eyes on him, taking in his lack of armor, his torn clothes and his many bruises. When he dared to look up again, Maedhros could see that his lip was curled, exactly as he had been expecting. He tried to set his own face, to clench his jaw and harden his features. The guards had finally dropped the long chain that they had been leading him with and the sudden clanging sound startled him. Without a word, they bowed and walked back towards the door. It wasn’t until Maedhros was startled again by the door slamming that he registered that he was alone with the Dark Foe. He was less than five paces from the foot of the throne and even looking down, he could see the light of the crown of stolen jewels on the cold stone beneath him. Maedhros’s fists clenched.

“Nelyafinwë…”

    This was the first time he had heard the Vala speak and the words seemed to come from multiple places at once; just before him, right next to his ears, and behind him, making Maedhros feel tempted to turn around. He dared to raise his head again, hoping that the power of the voice would be lessened if he could see its owners lips move.

    “You are Nelyafinwë, yes? Fëanáro’s eldest? The king?” Maedhros did not answer. He could not help but feel as though this was not really a question.

    “You are not a king here,” the Vala continued in a whisper like voice that raised the hairs on Maedhros’s skin, “For there can be no one in a position near equal to the Lord of the Land. And so within my walls, Nelyafinwë, you bow to me.”

    Maedhros was filled with a reckless urge to say something insolent and sarcastic. He had hardly asked the Vala to go into a speech about how he viewed governance and monarchies and he could not help but to feel that it was almost defensive of Morgoth to start off like this.

    “I bow to no one who does not deserve the respect shown with such a gesture,” Maedhros says quietly. He is not sure whether this will be met with amusement or fury from his enemy. Even the cold laugh he gets does not indicate to him what Morgoth is truly thinking. The sound however stings his ears.

    “You bow to me,” he repeats softly, “You will bow to me. Perhaps today I will have you forced but I do not doubt that there will be a time when you will do so from a wave of my hand. Even the stubborn son of Fëanáro is not immune to the many, many weaknesses of the Eldar.” He pauses to examine the look on his prisoner’s face. Maedhros swallows rather nervously.

    “What do you want?” he decides upon asking, “I assume I am here so you can try and force my brothers to retreat? It will not work. They will not leave these lands.” The words are spoken more quickly and nervously than he would have liked and to his dismay, Morgoth laughs again, this time the sound is silky and unnervingly condescending.

    “If your brothers are so cold of heart that they will not attempt to rescue you, that is quite unfortunate,” the Vala sneers, “But I could not care less for that, not at the moment. I have you, after all. And there are many matters I require your presence for before I attend to them. “

    This was such an odd way of stating…whatever it was that Morgoth was trying to say that Maedhros feels a shiver run through him again. Morgoth raises an eyebrow at this.   
“What do you need me for?” Maedhros asks gruffly.

    “Patience, Fëanorian,” the Vala croons, and Maedhros is uncomfortably aware of a change of some sort that has come over them, “This is only our first meeting, after all. Very soon, we will start to address such matters but for now, I merely wished to lay eyes on you.” From the relish in Morgoth’s voice when he utters the word Fëanorian, Maedhros cannot help but feel as though he is the next part of the dark Vala’s collection, after the Silmarils. A stab of anger pains him as once again, he feels he exists in no context other than as his father’s son. And he was about to pay for it. More so than he could imagine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Warning for implied abuse and Morgoth being creepy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (also posted on @outofangband on Tumblr where I post a lot of Silmarillion headcanons often about this very subject)

    “Step forward,” Morgoth orders. Maedhros does not. An almost excited gleam comes into the Vala’s eyes. Maedhros’s heart sinks as he realizes too late that this was the reaction Morgoth had been hoping for. Far more quickly than he would have thought, the Dark Foe stands and is in front of him. There is no way to step back without admitting a defeat of sorts and so Maedhros stays exactly where he is, toes curled on the cold ground.

    “I want to look at you,” Morgoth murmurs more to himself than to Maedhros. His horribly claw like hand extends to grasp the elf’s chin. Every cell in Maedhros’s body tenses at the touch, his teeth gritted and his posture stiff. The hand gripping his chin moves to grasp a few strands of his hair. Morgoth raises it up as though to better examine it in the light of the Silmarils.

   “Do not touch me,” Maedhros whispers once he can find his voice. The clawed hand replaces itself around Maedhros’s chin.

    “Do not ever say that to me again,” the Vala says calmly, “You do not wish to start off your first week here having earned my displeasure, do you?” his tone is now slightly mocking, almost playful. Maedhros’s face burns with fury and embarrassment.

    “I care not for what you think,” Maedhros responds to try and calm the rising heat in his bones. The slowness, the waiting for something more akin to violence is gnawing at him. He wants to know what Morgoth wants.

    “Are you scared, little one?” the dark Vala presses two fingers under Maedhros’s chin, the brightness of the jewels on his crown combined with the nearly smoke like aura around him made it nearly impossible for Maedhros to look up. He attempts a glare, but only manages to direct it towards the ground.  
  
    “There is no need to be,” Morgoth says but even he cannot keep the smirk from his face at the absurdity of the statement and within moments, he laughs, a deep, rumbling laugh that pains Maedhros’s ears. A shiver runs up his spine.  
“I understand, however,” the Vala continues softly, “I assume you thought the day would end in victory for your people or at the very least, an honorable death on the battlefield. But no. That is not your destiny, son of Fëanáro. And you are here with me now. Your father escaped the torment he deserved but you will not.”


End file.
